


night shift

by fshep



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Crossdressing, Dom/sub, Handcuffs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Punishment Cop Akira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fshep/pseuds/fshep
Summary: Goro stumbles upon a hobby of Akira's. They both find benefit.





	night shift

**Author's Note:**

> hey at least this time i tried to work plot into the pwp!  
> catch me at @arushuu on twitter

“Hey, stranger,” greets a voice, deep and honeyed. “What can I get for you?”

When Goro lifts his eyes to match the bartender’s, he doesn’t expect—he can’t _possibly_ expect—to find Akira Kurusu regarding him with a crimson-painted smile and fluttering lashes.

He wears a wig that bears resemblance to his actual hair, dark and curly but much, much longer. It spills over his shoulders, tips curving into the pattern of his kimono. The fabric looks silky to the touch; so soft that, when Akira leans forward and props his elbows onto the bar, he doesn’t make a sound.

Or, perhaps, the thundering of his own heart deafens him.

“Akechi-kun?”

“Ah—I didn’t expect to see you here,” he rushes to explain, grasping for some semblance of composure. “Here” is Crossroads, a seedy little bar in the middle of the _Red Light District_. “ _Here_ ” Akira stands—dressed to the nines. “Aren’t you a little young to be serving alcohol?"

“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking it?”

Just then, a presence looms over them both. Akechi recognizes her as the owner of the bar: Lala Escargot.

“You answered your own question, Detective,” she says with a wink. “He won’t be serving you anything that has more kick than a Sprite.”

He figured he’d be recognized, hadn’t fully expected to achieve the indulgence of inebriation, but there had been an ember of hope—abruptly extinguished by Lala’s unrelenting fondness for children.

“Both of you are lucky that people around here don’t ask questions,” Lala says, shooting them twin, pointed glares. Muttering, she adds, “Shouldn’t even allow one kid in here, let alone two.”

“Why do you, then?” Goro can’t help but ask, inclining his head toward her.

“I was a teenager once, too—”

“ _Really?_ ” Akira marvels.

Lala whacks him with a dishrag. “—And I know that you’ll find a way to get what you want, when you want. I’d prefer it be under my supervision over somebody who’s willing to take advantage of two sweet boys.”

It’s a nice sentiment. Still, Goro hesitates to trust the word of an adult. She seems like the honest type, but then, he’s heard the same be said about himself. Likely, she has an ulterior motive, even if it isn’t inherently malicious.

“Makes sense to me,” says Akira, shrugging. He removes his gaze from Goro to give Lala a look, and Goro catches the gratitude that softens his expression.

Lala responds with something parental, kind; Goro ignores the ugly stirring in his gut and allows the moment to pass with no small amount of patience.

Another customer waves the bartender down, so Lala leaves the two of them alone. Akira pulls out of his slouch and picks up the dishrag that Lala left behind, busying his hands by twisting and tugging at the fabric. The motion catches Goro's eye; he notices that Akira is wearing long acrylic nails. They glow and shimmer as they hit the light.

“So,” he blurts as he brushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “Is drag a dress code requirement?”

Akira lofts a brow. "Nope."

Somehow, Goro expected that answer. Still, he feels no closer to understanding. "Then, why...?"

"Don't I look pretty?"

He makes a valiant effort to clinically analyze Akira’s features instead of blatantly check him out. Aside from mascara and lipstick, he’s wearing highlighter and what appears to be some light contour. "It suits you," he settles on.

That gets Akira to smile, eyes crinkling at the corners as they drop to the counter. His false lashes flutter against his cheeks. "Thank you," he says softly. After a moment, he clears his throat and reaches for a glass. "But, seriously. Want anything? I can make a mean Kiddy Cocktail."

Goro chuckles lowly. "I'm sure you can. I'll just have a water, however." 

Akira clicks his tongue but otherwise obliges, filling his glass with ice and water. He slides it over with a wicked grin. "This one's on the house."

"I feel thoroughly treated."

Again, Akira grins, wider and looser than he's ever seen. As much as he'd like to assume responsibility for Akira's good mood, Goro has an inkling that being here is just as much of a reprieve for him as it is for Goro.

Damnably different circumstances aside.

The bar begins to fill with more patrons, which means Akira can’t linger. Goro makes himself as discreet as possible and, fortunately, nobody seems interested in getting a closer look at his face. Most of the clientele are large, older men; he’s almost certain that most, if not all of them, are Yakuza.

Despite that, he doesn’t feel threatened. Fear is elusive, these days, when he’s already experienced the worst kind of terror there is to offer.

_I need this done by tonight._

Goro digs his nails into his lap. He closes his eyes.

_I’m sure you understand that failure is not an option._

Rage simmers in his gut. Hatred, pure and unfettered, pounds beneath his ribcage in tandem with the guilt that has him in a chokehold.

"You know, this feels a little familiar. Me, behind a bar, while you sulk at the counter..."

He snaps his head up to find Akira in front of him once again.

"Sulk?" Goro acts surprised, fiddling with his glass. "You must've misread me. Leblanc puts me at ease... I daresay it is where I've become most comfortable. Aside from my own apartment, of course," he adds, although that's a lie too.

Akira hums. "Something's different, though," he continues. "You're lingering."

Condensation drips onto his fingertips. He wipes it off. Stalls. "Lingering?"

"We're closing up the bar soon. But at Leblanc, it's like..." He clicks his nails against the bar, peering at Goro and attempting to catch his gaze. "You have one foot out the door. Like you're always looking for an opening to leave."

"I simply didn’t—and don’t—want to overstay my welcome. I also didn't realize it had gotten so late..." Loath as he is to pry himself off of the barstool, he's even more reluctant to inconvenience anybody. "Thank you, for... attending to me."

Akira’s hand clasps over his wrist; Goro's shoulder jerks back, nearly dislodging his grip. "Wait. I wasn't kicking you out. You're entitled to stay as long as you'd like—both here and at Leblanc. Sojiro's got regulars that spend hours loitering around the cafe, you know? He might grumble about it, but he doesn't really care."

"Ah..."

"Besides," he adds with a shrug, "if you stay a little longer, we can walk back to the station together. Makes sense, yeah? It's dangerous to be out there alone at this time of night." He casts a glance toward the remaining patrons—the men—that are relocating to private rooms. The bar might be closing to the public, but it’s likely that Lala has a long night of tending to more _special_ guests ahead of her. 

His grip eases when Goro says "Alright," and releases altogether when Goro manages to smile.

Akira steps out from behind the bar to help Lala-chan clean up the tables. Only then does Goro notice he's wearing heels—and strutting from table to table without a hitch in his step. How he manages to carry himself like this with such unwavering confidence is beyond Goro’s comprehension. 

Like this, he observes, Akira is a few inches taller than him. He protests the concept, initially, and then simmers with heat when Akira trails past him, all sturdy height and self-assuredness.

He catches Goro looking more than once but doesn’t call him out on it. He seems pleased, in fact, finishing the rest of his closing duties with a persistent quirk of his lips.

“Almost done,” Akira says, pulling his schoolbag out from behind the bar. “Just gotta change.”

Unfortunate. Goro idly laments the loss until Akira reappears in jeans and a collared shirt. He hadn’t bothered to remove his makeup; still glowing beneath the lights, he gives Goro a look charged with something that makes Goro feel simultaneously heavy and light.

"Ready to go?"

"After you," says Goro, holding the door open for Akira.

Despite the fact that it’s past midnight, the streets of Shibuya are still bustling with activity. Goro doubts that any of it is legal, but he isn't here as a cop. Really, he doesn't know what he is or who he’s supposed to be while Akira settles close beside him.

“Chilly tonight,” the thief offers by way of explanation.

This would be the part where Goro would offer an extra layer, if he had one. Instead, he allows Akira to leech his body heat without complaint.

He zones out, the sound of their synchronized steps bleeding into background noise. Mentally, he tallies the things he could do to procrastinate heading home. The silence, the stale, thin air, makes him want to claw out of his skin and he just _can’t_ tonight. Not when he can predict tomorrow’s headlines, bold-faced and stricken with horror.

Just as they reach the station, Akira asks, “Why did you come to Crossroads tonight?”

Goro flinches; Akira’s tone is devoid of any of its earlier teasing.

“You didn’t really expect to be served… right?”

He pauses, weighing what to say and _how much_ to say. “There are establishments that _employ_ teenagers for far more unsavory jobs than your work with Lala-chan. I believe I happened to choose the one bar that wouldn’t serve a minor.”

“But…” Akira frowns. Sighs. “ _Why?_ Getting drunk is one thing, but—here? Of all places? You could’ve been taken advantage of.”

 _At least_ this time _it’d be my decision_ , Goro thinks.

“I deserve it.”

Akira looks at him, alarmed.

“I… am not always the man I project for the media,” he offers, tentative, holding back the full truth for his own self-preservation. “Nobody is perfect, but I’ve made… terrible mistakes. I can’t run away from them but I can’t make light, either. I deserve to be…”

Akira watches him, unwavering. “To be what?”

“Reprimanded,” he whispers. “Punished.”

A soft but sharp inhale rattles Akira’s frame. Silence remains suspended in the air for an extended beat, Akira’s eyes on him all the while. Goro closes his own as if that could contain his oozing shame and mortification—why had he said that, and phrased in such a way?

He knows why. Akira does, too, if the lessening distance between them is any indication.

“I have an idea.”

Goro still won’t look at him. “Is that so?” The words leave him in a wavering mockery of composure.

“Come over.” The offer hangs between them, weighted. “Come over, and I’ll help you.”

 _I’m beyond help_.

“... Alright.”

 

* * *

 

Goro considers himself adept at diffusing tension. A smile, a corny little joke, or perhaps an anecdote—all prove to be effective even during the most harrowing circumstances. As he lounges on the attic couch, one leg crossed primly over the other, he intends to do just that once Akira is done changing for the third time that night. After the lengthy discussion they’d had on the train (about _boundaries_ and _trust_ and a vague promise of what’s to come), he sure as hell could use some reach for normalcy.

Whatever _that_ is.

When Akira climbs upstairs in an entirely new ensemble—a slim-fitted jacket, skirt, tights, boots, and elbow-length gloves—Goro’s words die on his withered tongue. He only gives Akira’s face a passing glance before his eyes roam down long, shapely legs.

“How do I look?” Akira asks as if _he doesn’t already know_.

“I’m curious as to how you’ve acquired all of these outfits,” says Goro, mild.

A shrug. “Lala-chan. The internet. There are more, but I’ll model those for you some other time.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Akira saunters forward, heels thudding against the floorboards. Goro notes the studded belt wrapped tightly around his waist, and hooked around one side are—

“Handcuffs,” Goro says.

“Mm- _hm_. Come here. Turn around and give me your hands.”

Hesitation holds him in place. While he _wants_ this, wants _Akira_ , there’s a part of him that refuses to willingly submit to anybody.

As if understanding this, Akira takes the initiative. He grabs Goro’s arm and lifts him off of the couch before twisting it behind his back. _Click_. Then, the other. _Click._  He then nudges the back of Goro’s knee, forcing him to slowly kneel against the floor. Akira rounds out from behind and crouches down in front of him.

“You may call me _Mistress_ ,” he says gently, “or _ma’am_.” His eyes flicker over Goro’s features, smiling at his wide-eyed acquiesce. It fades, a little, when Goro simply nods. “I want to hear you say it.”

“A-Ah… yes, Mistress.”

Delighted, Akira smooths his palms over Goro’s chest. They divert paths; one down his stomach on its way to curve around his waist, the other coming up to take hold of Goro’s jaw.

“You’re so tense,” he says, leaning in and pressing his lips to the slope of Goro’s neck. His pulse jumps underneath Akira’s mouth. “You should be. I’ve got a lot planned for you.”

He swallows. Akira leaves a searing path of kisses up Goro’s throat, over his chin, and at the corner of his mouth. He leans away to fix Goro with a blazing look. “Anything you wanna add before we get started?”

Goro breathes in. Out. “Don’t _stop—_ no matter how much I beg for it. Please.”

“Only if you drop your safeword,” promises Akira. His lips find Goro’s, sealing the deal with a sweet kiss. Once satisfied, he pulls out of Goro’s space, rendering him wobbly and unbalanced. He manages to keep himself upright, which soon proves to be useless as Akira grabs him by the hair and yanks him forward. He lands with a soft thud, grunting.

Akira nudges him with his boot. The tip slides beneath Goro’s chin.

“Well? Show some gratitude, _Akechi_.”

Without explicit orders, Goro’s left to interpret this as he pleases. Ears burning, he tilts his head, pressing his lips against cold leather. Akira doesn’t react one way or another, so he doesn’t stop lavishing his boots with enthusiastic affection.

“Ahh,” croons Akira, “you’re just like a dog.” His voice hardens, sole relocating to the front of Goro’s shoulder. “Roll over.”

He does. The floor creaks beneath his back and he ignores the pressure of the cuffs digging into his wrists, watching Akira step around his body. He plants his foot directly on top of Goro’s chest and bends down, not sparing an ounce of his weight. Their eyes meet.

“That expression… still holding onto defiance, huh?” He digs into him with his heel. “I’ll strip you of your pride.”

Goro can’t hold back his scoff—can’t resist the opportunity to goad. “I’d like to see you try.”

Akira arches his brow and reaches for something attached to the belt on his waist. Goro can’t see what it is from this angle without straining his neck, but he doesn’t have to wait long for the object to be revealed: it’s a riding crop, black and sleek, cradled prettily in Akira’s hands. He sets the flat end on Goro’s cheek and caresses it. Despite the featherlight touch, Goro’s muscles tense in anticipation.

A strike never comes. Akira drags it down his neck and stops at the dip between his collarbones where the knot of his tie sits. Then, he sets the crop aside.

“You always dress so formally,” Akira says, conversational. Nimble fingers undo button after button. “I know a thing or two about using clothes to manipulate the way people perceive you, you know.” His cuffed wrists prevent his shirt from being completely discarded, but Akira doesn’t seem to mind, simply leaving it open to expose the wide planes of Goro’s bare chest. “You’re the type that dresses to impress. Your peers think you have it all together, right? And your teachers, your superiors—they’re surprised by your maturity.”

He shudders when Akira skims the tips of his gloved fingers up Goro’s abdomen. “Is this rhetorical? Would you like me to respond, or are you simply obsessed with the sound of your own voice?” It’s a struggle to stay even.

Akira squeezes a nipple and he hisses.

“I’d like,” he says, light, flicking his thumb back and forth _over and over_ , “for you to remember who you’re talking to.”

“... Yes, ma’am.”

He stops and backs away. Next, he focuses on ridding Goro of his belt. As he unzips his slacks, Goro’s erection brushes against the side of Akira’s hand.

“Wow,” he comments with undisguised glee, “I can’t believe you’re really getting off on this.”

He elects not to speak. Akira doesn’t mind; he tugs at the waistband of his trousers, adding, “Lift your hips,” and tossing them—as well as his briefs—somewhere behind him.

 _Exposed_ feels like an understatement. He closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see Akira sizing him up and flinches when Akira touches his thighs.

“Jumpy.” He wraps one hand around Goro’s hip and the other around his shoulder to flip him back onto his stomach. Akira guides him onto his knees. With his wrists bound the way they are, he can’t even support himself with his shoulders; he’s forced to keep his face flat against the floor, ass up in the air.

“Now _that’s_ a nice view. Spread your legs a little further for me.”

He obeys, digging his forehead into the hardwood. The humiliation is _disorienting_  and he doesn’t register the faint touch of the riding crop against his cheek until it’s _not faint at all,_  leaving a quick, searing pain in its wake with a resounding _whap!_

“Ah!”

Again. Goro spasms against the floor, another gasp spilling from his mouth.

Akira drags the crop’s flat end over the swell of his ass. It’s almost soothing, the way he brushes it back and forth along his raw skin. That is, until he whips him again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Goro seethes.

“It’s already so red,” Akira helpfully informs him. “You’re sensitive.”

_Whap! Whap!_

Harder and _harder_. Goro jerks forward with each swing, inching away, even as he arches his back and sticks his ass out for more. Akira doesn’t linger in one spot, clearly interested in spreading color from cheek to cheek, and each hit against fresh untouched skin causes him to cry out in desperate pleasure-pain.

“Damn it,” he moans as Akira switches back to caressing him, this time with the rod. It’s cool against his flushed skin. “ _Please._ ”

He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for—but when Akira whips him again, he releases a sob of elation, collapsing under his own weight.

Akira clicks his tongue. “Get up.”

His legs quiver with exertion. It takes him a moment to acquiesce, but he manages, heaving.

Perhaps thinking himself merciful, Akira chooses to tease instead of strike, lightly tapping the crop wherever he pleases. He presses it against Goro’s balls and he chokes, then, on his own saliva, and Akira barrels a laugh.

By the time Akira loses interest in the crop, Goro lacks a solid grasp on thought. His ass throbs with heat and his cheek is numb and wet from where it’s smashed against the floorboard. Akira says something but his ears are ringing, his _mind_ is—somewhere else. One sensation he does register is a _touch—_ Akira’s—on his forearm.

The touch becomes a grasp. Vertigo threatens to overcome him as he’s pulled to his feet, but Akira’s there to keep him steady.

“Easy,” he croons. Goro’s head sways to rest on Akira’s shoulder. “We’re gonna move toward the bed.”

Akira situates Goro to his liking. Goro winces as he’s forced to sit down, sore beyond recognition, but makes no complaint—even when Akira settles on top of his thighs, the slits on either side of his skirt spreading to accommodate the motion. At the very least, Goro has pillows behind his back, keeping him upright and snug. He feels secure.

“Good, right?” says Akira, dipping forward. Goro nods deliriously, and something in Akira’s expression softens. He closes the distance between them for a kiss. The tenderness is jarring; a sound gets trapped in Goro’s throat. Akira, bashful, apologizes for breaking character: “Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

He reaches for the shelf beside the bed and grabs a bottle of lube. Goro stares at it, heartrate picking back up.

Of course, Akira notices. His lips pull into a smirk. “Excited? I’d be careful what you wish for, Akechi-kun.”

Whatever _that_ means. Goro doesn’t dwell, focusing instead on Akira’s hands which work to uncap the bottle and wet the underside of his gloved fingers. A part of him would prefer to feel Akira’s bare hands, but—he’s in no position to be making demands.

“Look at me.” Goro tears his gaze away to obey. Akira’s eyes are hooded beneath long curls and long, dark lashes. “I want you to tell me when you’re close. Do you understand?”

“Y-Yes… Yes, ma’am.”

“And you don’t get to come without my permission.” He grasps Goro’s dick, then, moving to spread lube along the length rather than pumping with purpose. “If you do, you’ll regret it.”

A violent shiver wracks Goro’s frame.

“Now… let’s begin.”

He breathes a wet sigh as Akira _finally_ squeezes his neglected cock. He jerks him slowly, methodically. There’s something almost clinical in the way he moves, and Goro soon finds that the steady rhythm is working him up far too quickly.

“Oh,” he breathes, abdomen flexing.

Akira presses his thumb against the slit—a sensitive spot—and rubs. He switches between that and jerking him off. Despite the languid pace, Goro feels a telltale tension start to build, and he somehow has enough sense to warn Akira—

“ _Close_.”

Akira’s hand leaves him altogether. He whines, hips flexing.

The bastard smirks. _I’d be careful what you wish for_.

Goro’s lips part in sudden understanding. Akira laughs, skimming the tips of his fingers along Goro’s length. His movements become a pattern; squeeze, stroke and stroke and _stroke_ until he’s just at the edge of unraveling, and then— _nothing_.

Once again.

Again.

And again.

“Please. Please, please, _please_ ,” Goro babbles, nearly nonsensical. “Close. Close!”

When Akira’s hand leaves him, he _sobs_ , body seizing up. Only Akira’s strong, stocking-clad thighs keep him in place as he writhes and writhes, cock flexing for friction. The next inhale is a struggle; he smashes his head back against the pillows and gapes.

“Wow,” Akira marvels, tapping a rhythm against Goro’s head. “You’ve got a lot more restraint than I expected. Let’s do a few more.”

 _A few?_ Goro can’t possibly...

He shakes his head repeatedly. “No, I can’t. I _can’t_.”

“You can.” Akira grabs his dick, ignoring his whine of protest. “You _will_.”

And he does. Somehow, unimaginably, he manages to hold himself together even after Akira works him up _again_. But that’s the last of his restraint; the next time Akira pumps his swollen dick, flicking his wrist at a faster pace before abruptly releasing him, Goro thrashes and whimpers until cum coats his stomach, his chest, and—Akira’s uniform, he notes dazedly.

Akira grabs him by the chin and lifts his head. “Did I say you could come?”

“N…” He’s still catching his breath. “No, ma’am.”

“You came—and you made a _fucking_ mess about it, too.” He drops Goro’s face with a sigh and reaches for something just outside of Goro’s line of sight. “Guess I’ll just have to teach you a lesson.” A click. A low thrum. “ _Don’t disobey my orders_.”

It’s a vibrator, Goro registers with horror, and Akira doesn’t hesitate to place the round end of it against the underside of Goro’s slick, softening cock. The sensation is _too fucking much_ that it _hurts_ but Goro doesn’t dare complain, not so soon after disappointing Akira. All he can do is lie there and take it, brows furrowing together, pushing a fresh wave of tears down his cheeks.

As if that weren’t enough, Akira begins to stroke him, dick snug between the vibrator and Akira’s palm. It’s slow and unrelenting but sparks of pleasure, too hot, shake him to his core. Through it all he finds himself getting hard and it must amaze Akira as much as it does himself, because Akira whistles.

“You like it when I torture your cock…? That works in your favor, Akechi-kun; if you manage to come again, I’ll forgive you for earlier. Think you can do that for me?”

“No,” Goro sobs, setting a realistic expectation.

Akira ignores him.

“Please, stop,” he begs. “Please—stop, stop, stop.” His breath catches as his gut tightens. “Oh, I—I’m—!”

“That’s right,” Akira goads with a squeeze. “I know you’re going to do exactly what I want because I know _exactly how to take care of you_.”

Goro shrieks, straining his neck with how hard he leans back, nearly dislodging Akira from his perch with the force of his second orgasm. The vibrator shuts off at once and Akira sets it aside, leaving Goro’s overstimulated dick throbbing in absence of touch. He can’t stop _shaking_.

His heart thunders in his chest, deafening. He stares blankly at the ceiling and only vaguely comprehends Akira lifting him up just enough to get at his wrists. After a moment, the cuffs slip free, and Akira pulls his hands back toward his front, massaging his wrists all the while.

“Mm,” Goro supplies, eyes slipping shut. The sensation of Akira’s gentle thumbs working at sore skin guides him into further complacency.

Akira laughs, low and fond. “You like that?”

“Mmm.”

“I’ve really rendered you to one syllable, huh? I’ve gotta put this on my resume or something.”

Goro hopes that his sigh informs Akira of how insufferable he is. 

After a few moments of quiet reflection, Akira speaks up again, just before pressing a soft kiss to Goro’s cheek. “You did really well.”

“But,” Goro immediately protests, voice croaking, “all I did was lie here while you did all of the work.”

“Yeah, and it was awesome. I can’t believe how much you trust me. ... I’m really happy.”

It’s praise in its own right, evident in Akira’s grin. Elation and dread war within Goro’s stomach. He screws his eyes shut to block Akira from reading whatever emotion wins.

If he truly trusted Akira, he’d be able to cry for help. Instead, he lifts his freed hands to Akira’s shoulders and _clings_. 


End file.
